


221B: Two Deliveries

by AprilFool



Series: 221B [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Anxiety, Autistic Sherlock, Chemistry, Childish Sherlock, Collections - Freeform, Confused Sherlock, Cuddly Sherlock, Cute, Cute Sherlock, Doctor John Watson, Embarrassed Sherlock, Falling In Love, Feelings, First Love, First Time, Fluff, Freak, Hedgehog - Freeform, Hurt Sherlock, Inexperienced Sherlock, John Watson In Love, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock - Freeform, London, Loneliness, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Nostalgia, Sad Sherlock, Scared Sherlock, Sexual Inexperience, Sexy John, Sherlock Feels, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock in Love, Sherlock is Alone, Sherlock's Heart, Shy Sherlock, Stuffed Toys, Sweet Sherlock, Synesthesia, Virgin Sherlock, anxious sherlock, notebooks, soft, soft sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 12:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AprilFool/pseuds/AprilFool
Summary: Sherlock receives two packages. One is the reason he sees John half naked, the other causes him to nearly cry.





	221B: Two Deliveries

The doorbell rings.   
“John”, Sherlock mumbles. He lays in his bed, still sleepy and dreamy.   
John is taking a shower in the next room. Sherlock listens to the water and imagines the scars he hasn’t seen yet.   
The bell rings a second time.  
“Sherlock, open the damn door!”, John shouts. The water stops running.   
A third ring.   
“Sherlock, I’m naked, I can’t go!”   
Sherlock braces up, wrapped in his sheets. Stumbles. He can’t coordinate his moves when he is drowsy. He blunders against the wall. His foot still hurts.

In the living room he meets John, who wears nothing but a towel around his hips, his hair still wet so it looks a lot darker now.   
Sherlock is awake now. He blinks. He stares. It’s the perfect opportunity to search John’s body for scars. But he can’t think of scars now. He can’t even focus. He just gazes.   
John is thoroughly fit, his upper body and legs muscular and wiry. His skin is still damp from the shower, drops fall from his hair down his chest. The towel sits low on his hips, his loins are showing.   
There is a twitch between Sherlock’s legs. He gasps, grabs his sheet tighter.   
“What?”, John asks.   
“What?” Sherlock is confused.   
“You are staring.”   
“I’m not –“   
“Boys, haven’t you heard the doorbell?” It’s Mrs Hudson who has opened the door to their living room, a package deliverer right behind her.   
“Delivery for Sherlock Holmes”, the man says.   
John points at his flatmate without any words. Glances at him for a few more seconds.   
“My petri dishes, probably”, Sherlock says, toneless.   
John turns around and disappears inside the bathroom.   
Absent minded Sherlock signs the delivery confirmation. The postman and Mrs Hudson leave the flat.

Sherlock still doesn’t move, doesn’t mind the big box with his laboratory supplies. With his inner eyes he still sees John.   
_Beautiful_.   
There is the twitching again.   
Sharply, Sherlock sucks in air. He even bends down a little bit, his knees growing weak.   
_What is that?_   
He storms back into his room, slamming the door behind him. He falls on his bed, the sheet merely covers his lower abdomen now. There is a bulge under the sheet that Sherlock feels the urge to touch.

“Sherlock!” The yell makes him jump. For the second time this morning he stumbles out of his bed, wrapped in his sheet again. The bulge is nearly gone.   
He toddles into the living room.   
John is dressed now, his marvellous body hidden under one of his ugly jumpers.   
_Marvellous body?_   
What phraseology is that? Sherlock is puzzled. But he has no time to think about it now.   
John points at the huge box inside their living room. “What is that?”   
“Petri dishes”, Sherlock answers. He fiddles with the tape, opens the box. “500 pieces.”   
“500 petri dishes?”, John echoes.   
“Without agars. It’s too much fun to prepare them myself.”   
“I hope you’ll store them in your bedroom.”   
“Kitchen. Obviously.”   
“No. You don’t put 500 petri dishes in our kitchen.”   
“We’ll see.” Sherlock starts to drag the box inside the kitchen.   
John looks sceptically, his lips form a fine line. His flatmate looks a bit crazy while he hobbles over the floor, muffled in this big white sheet.   
“Don’t stare, help me instead”, Sherlock says.   
John laughs. “Your petri dishes, your problem.”

 

Later the day Sherlock lays on his bed. He still wears nothing but the sheet. Loves the feeling of the cool linen on his skin.   
He is on his phone, calls his parents. His Mum answers right away.   
When she hears it’s her youngest son on the other end she is alarmed. She isn’t used to be called by him.   
“Sherlock, is everything alright in London?”   
“I’m fine. Listen, I need you to do something for me.” Sherlock doesn’t ask how his parents are. If there has been something wrong or new or whatever his Mum had already told him right away.   
Mrs Holmes sighs. “What is it, dear?”   
“Do you know where my old bee is?”   
“Of course! Bumble. I have put him in-“   
Sherlock interrupts her. “Can you send _it_ to me?”   
“I’m glad to. I didn’t know that you still like him. I’ll send him out today. But now tell me, how do you do?”   
“Fine. A bit boring. Still no new cases to work on.”   
“Sounds like you have some time on your hands. Why don’t you come around for a visit? We haven’t seen you in a while.”   
“Sorry, Mum. I’m working on something. Nothing extraordinary but it requires me to stay in London.” Stay by John’s side, Sherlock thinks. But he doesn’t say it aloud, obviously.   
“You are like Mycroft. Always working.”   
“Don’t compare me to Mycroft.”   
His Mum sighs. She has always sighed a lot.   
“Do you eat enough?”, she now asks, knows that Sherlock hates this topic. But it’s important to her.   
“I do my best”, Sherlock lies. In reality he hasn’t eaten in two days.   
“Maybe I should speak to your flatmate. He can keep an eye on you.”   
“Don’t be ridiculous.” That’s why Sherlock doesn’t call his parents too often. They are always worried, especially his Mum. And then she comes up with disastrous ideas.

There is a blue circle inside Sherlock, near his heart. He knows that feeling. It’s homesickness. The first weeks after he had moved out of his parents' home the blue circle had been a constant companion.   
He misses his Mum, this wonderful woman with an incredible abundance of patience and sympathy.   
Nostalgia. Again. Apparently because of his notebooks he has flipped through last weekend.

“Are you still there, honey?”   
Sherlock hasn’t noticed that he hasn’t said anything for a few moments.   
“Still here”, he answers, his voice breathy. “But I have to go now.” He has not.   
“Pick up the phone the next time I’ll call you, okay? You are a bit neglectful.”   
“I promise.”   
“Alright. Take care of yourself, honey. I love you.”   
“Bye, Mum.”   
“Bye.”   
He lets the phone sink, lays still, stares at the ceiling.

 

Two days later Sherlock comes home in the afternoon. He doesn’t leave the flat much besides from working on cases. But today he has been at the bookshop, has bought a few new notebooks. He couldn’t resist.   
John is already back from work. He is in the kitchen, preparing dinner. It smells quite delicious, Sherlock has to admit.   
“Hi, Sherlock. Been out?”, John asks while cutting tomatoes.   
“Bookshop”, Sherlock answers, takes off his scarf, stops under the door frame.   
On the kitchen table sits a box. Opened.   
He takes a step forward.   
His mother’s handwriting. His bee has arrived.

John turns around. Blushes. “Oh, yeah. A delivery for you.”   
“You opened it”, Sherlock whispers. His throat goes dry.   
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know -. After you’ve ordered that stupid amount of petri dishes I just wanted to look if -.” John falls quiet. Licks his lips.   
Painful embarrassment pours through Sherlock. He knows that feeling, has felt it a lot of times before.

In a rush he grabs the package and runs to his room, slams the door behind him.   
Still in his coat he sits down on his bed, frees the toy from the box.   
Bumble.   
He looks at the almost 30-year-old toy in his hands. The bee is shabby and scabby but it is still one of Sherlock’s dearest possessions, he realises.   
He presses his face into the soft material. Bumble smells like home, comfort and childhood. The blue circle reappears.   
Sherlock doesn’t bother taking off his coat, wraps his duvet around him, cuddles up.

There is a voice through the closed door. “Do you want dinner?”   
“No.”   
“I can bring you something inside.”   
“Go away!”   
Once again, Sherlock is confused. He doesn’t know why he feels uncomfortable with John knowing about the bee. Normally he doesn’t care too much about what people think of him. But it’s different now. Sherlock can’t let it happen that John as well thinks his flatmate is a freak, like all the other people already do. Or the most, at least.

The door opens. Sherlock turns away. Can’t look at John.   
“Listen, Sherlock, I’m here to apologise. It was wrong to open your package.”   
Sherlock still presses his face into Bumble, hides under the blanket. He feels a movement, weight is added on the mattress, the sheets rustle. There is a pressure on his shoulder. Is John touching him?   
“When I was a child I had a little hedgehog. Not a real one, though. A plushie. I took him everywhere I went. One day I lost him at the beach. I didn’t get him back. I sometimes still think of him.”   
“Why do you tell me this?”, Sherlock mutters from under the duvet. This story is sad.   
“It’s just totally fine to have some relicts from our childhood. You don’t need to be embarrassed about it.”   
But Sherlock can’t help it, feels awkward. Miserable. Wants John to leave him alone, wants John to stay. He is confused, once again. Doesn’t know what to feel or do or say.   
He gets mad at himself. A whimper leaves his lips.  
“Sherlock, I never meant to hurt you! Please, believe me!”  
Sherlock notices that John moves closer to him.   
“Please, listen, Sherlock. I don’t know what’s going on, but please talk to me.” John sounds frantic now.

And then Sherlock feels how an arm is put around him. He leans into this embrace, wants to be closer to John. He wants to get rid of the duvet, the coat. But at the same time he is too afraid to dismantle his protective wall.   
He presses Bumble to his chest, wants to curl into a ball around the bee. Wants to be held by John.   
He sobs. “I don’t know what’s going on”, he whispers.   
It’s too late now. He has turned into a weirdo right in front of John’s eyes. Everyone’s right. He really _is_ a freak.   
His heart aches, simply aches. No explosion of colours, no big geometric shapes. Just pain.

John hugs his flatmate with both arms now. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay. I’m here.” Gives the duvet a tug so he can see Sherlock’s messy hair, caresses the dark curls.   
Sherlock stiffens under the touch. Too afraid to even breathe.   
“Does your bee have a name?”, John asks.   
“Bumble”, Sherlock mumbles.   
“I like that.”   
“Not very original.”   
“Doesn’t matter.”   
“When I was a child I didn’t have many friends”, Sherlock confesses. “Actually I had none. I had my parents, my brother, my dog and… Bumble.”   
He can tell this to John now. It doesn’t matter anymore because he is nothing more than a freak to him now.   
“Redbeard is dead. Mycroft has changed. My parents live their own life. Bumble is the only thing that is still the same. He reminds me of home. Warmth and security.”

He feels lonely, lost. Although he always claims that he loves the loneliness it drags on his heart. He has hoped that John would become something like family to him. But this thought has gotten shattered today.   
It’s just him. And Bumble.  
Sherlock wants to be liked, admired by John. It worked out quite well when they were occupied with cases. But then his mind started to behave strangely. Can a mind even do something like _behave_?

“Maybe we can change the flat into something more cosy?”, John says now. “So it feels more like a home?”   
A wave of dark blue warmth washes through Sherlock’s chest. He still can’t look at John, but a little smile forms on his lips. “That would be nice.”   
“Fine. Now, Sherlock, I’m starving. I really need to eat something. Want to join me?”   
Sherlock doesn’t feel ready to leave his nest.   
He wants to be caressed by John for ever. It’s soothing.   
“I stay in bed”, he says.   
John gets up. “I can bring us dinner in bed and we watch a movie on my laptop.”   
Sherlock’s heart starts to beat faster. His mind, his heart, his body – everything is longing for this. But there is also fear, insecurity and embarrassment inside him. He wants John near him so much. He wants John in his bed so much.   
“Maybe tomorrow”, he backs off.   
“Take your time.” John sounds understanding towards his flatmate. Then he leaves the bedroom.   
Sherlock sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> Next time it's getting a bit sexier ;)


End file.
